Flaws
by CourftheCat
Summary: You have always worn you flaws upon your sleeve, and I have always buried them deep beneath the ground.


_**So basically I was listening to Flaws (by Bastille) last night, and I just realised how well the chorus fitted Enjolras and Grantaire. There's no slash in this fic, just friendship, so a bit different to what I normally write. It's pretty long too, but I hope you enjoy!**_

Enjolras had never expected to survive the revolution. In his eyes he had no reason to: he was happy to die for the cause, and he trusted the people to pick up the flame and keep it burning until a new republic was born. He never thought about what would happen if he the people didn't rise, if the republic wasn't born, if he survived the revolution. But now, as he yanked his arm off the wall from where it had been pinned by bullets, all that was at his feet. He was alone.

Enjolras was an optimist, and he had the utmost faith in his friends. They were still alive. They had to be. Enjolras called out the window, answered by his echo, and then empty silence. They were alive, they _had_ to be alive. As Enjolras turned away from the window, something caught his eye. Across the pile of wooden shrapnel that was once the barricade, a figure was tied limply to a post. Death by firing squad. At first, Enjolras didn't recognise him, the blood around his face and chest masked him, and the distance made it harder. But Enjolras saw the fishtail plait matted with blood draped over the man's shoulder and Enjolras let out a cry of frustration, anger, pain. Jehan.

He gripped the wooden window pain in agony as the memory of Jehan's death came flooding back. _Vive le republique, vive l'avenir!_ The words echoed around Enjolras' head as he remembered the others that fell. He remembers all their deaths, except… Grantaire. Memories of the cynic walking over to join him in death flickered through Enjolras' mind, but Grantaire wasn't beside him. Enjolras closed his eyes and prayed that at least one of his friends was still alive.

"Enjolras?" Enjolras' eyes flashed open and he whipped round to see Grantaire. Blood covered his face and shirt, but other than that he seemed unharmed. Enjolras ran forward and wrapped his arms around Grantaire, crying into his shoulder.

"It's just us," he murmured. "There's only us left…" Grantaire slowly returned the embrace, resting his head in the crook of Enjolras' neck. He wanted to say something to comfort Enjolras, to comfort _himself_, but no words could fix this, so they stood in silence, pouring out their emotions into each other until they had nothing left.

-/-

Each of the Amis were not given the honour of their own graves, but Grantaire had good craftsmanship skills, and spent the next day carving their names into a headstone to go above their grave. Enjolras sat in the corner of Grantaire's studio, staring blankly into the distance, ignoring the tears that kept falling. Every so often, Grantaire wiped away his own tears so he doesn't mess up the engraving. They never received anything from him, so it was time they did.

It wasn't long before Enjolras began to murmur words to himself. Words of bitter hatred of himself, how he should have waited, how he should have taken in Grantaire's mocks instead of coming up with an elaborate speech that would bury his flawed plan and perhaps give him some encouragement that he could overcome whatever the National Guard threw at him. He began to sob quietly, telling himself that, because of his own mistakes, his friends were dead. His own arrogance and overconfidence had cost them their lives.

Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras every now and again. Hearing his marble leader talk about flaws, Grantaire knew he should be lying in that grave right then. Of all people, he least deserved to live. He drank himself into oblivion most nights, and made no useful contribution to anything. Each breath he made belonged to someone else, more worthy of life. The pain in his chest grew with every name he engraved into the plaque, watching the names appear, the names of those more deserving of life.

Grantaire knew he wasn't perfect. He used to joke about his flaws, about the life he lead that was worthless. His mind flashed back to the jabs he had made at Enjolras' speeches. He had no right. He knew to take the log out of his own eye before trying to remove someone else's. Picking out someone else's flaws was something he enjoyed, something that could deter him from his own mistakes. After all, his whole life was based around his flaws. Everything he did, said, drunk: it was all an expression of guilt. He'd done life wrong, and now he had taken away someone else's rightful place in the land of the living.

"Thank you." Enjolras said quietly. His voice was monotonous, lifeless.

"What for?" Grantaire did not need thanking. Not then, not ever.

"For trying." Grantaire turned around and stared into Enjolras' eyes. "You pointed out the gaps in my plans, but I ignored you. I just brushed over it, kept going. In the end, it cost seven men, one woman and a child their lives. I should have listened to you."

"I wasn't one to talk about mistakes," Grantaire replied. "I came to your speeches drunk and pessimistic. I had no right."

"You made some good points, Grantaire. I should have listened to you. I lead those men into battle before we were ready, it wasn't your fault."

"I was pulling up your flaws when I should have been dealing with my own."

"Your flaws are a part of your being, you address them already. At least you actually know yours exist. Until now, I never acknowledged problems with my plans."

"You're an optimist, that's just you." Enjolras was thoughtful for a minute.

"We'd make a pretty good team," he murmured. Grantaire frowned. "I can go out, make speeches for the people. But you understand the pessimistic side of things, you see the problems and you tell me about them. Except this time, we fix it. We need to finish this. We can't just let the Amis' deaths be for nothing!" For a second, the hope returned to Enjolras' eyes. Grantaire's mouth curved into a small smile.

"For once, my dear Apollo," Grantaire stood up to clap Enjolras on the shoulder, "I think you're right."

_**Hope you enjoyed! I think I may have swapped tenses a few times by accident while I was writing this, so if you spot any mistakes, could you let me know? Thank you!**_


End file.
